


Anew

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Consent Play, Explicit Sexual Content, Medical Kink, Multi, Polyamory, Sounding, Sub!Athos, inseparablesfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So, I’d suggest two ways we can do this. First one is, we go upstairs and just try them out, see what it’s like.” A significant pause. “Or… you might agree with me that this kind of procedure is best performed by a trained professional.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lilith_the_ancient](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilith_the_ancient/gifts).



> For [InseparablesFest 2k15](http://inseparablesfest.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> **Content notes** : Consent play (i.e. roleplaying a non-consensual scenario).
> 
> Thank you to my giftee for the inspiration, and [ShadowValkyrie](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/shadowvalkyrie) for her tireless encouragement.

It would be quite the understatement to say that opening up his and Porthos’ relationship to include Athos turned out to be very much not what Aramis had expected. ****

Well. Even knowing what little he had about Athos’ sexual proclivities, Aramis’ finely-honed senses had always hinted to him that they probably wouldn’t be putting away the whips and chains for good – but the reality was both so much greater and so much more _fraught_ than he had ever predicted.

Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have had them all doing BDSM checklists in the first week. He certainly would have taken a moment to consider, at least, instead of good-naturedly steamrollering over Athos’ halting objections until he presumably decided that it was easier to just capitulate than explain.

(When they sat down together for the show-and-tell, Athos’ paper was two-thirds blank. Even now there are still a few boxes he won’t fill in, even though they have all learnt enough to know exactly what that means.)

No, Aramis doesn’t think he’s ever slept with anyone so experienced and so ignorant simultaneously, and one of the few things he’s ever been ashamed of is just how long it took him – took them both – to realise that the same Athos who knows exactly where and how hard he needs to be hit before he’ll come from a single touch, who can tell within thirty seconds if a rope is tied well enough that he’ll still be able to cope in thirty minutes, needs to have such _basic fucking concepts_ explained to him as the fact that you can like the idea of something a _lot_ without ever wanting to actually have it done to you –

Sometimes Aramis wants to fucking _strangle_ that ex-wife of his.

He and Porthos were out of their depth. Horribly, laughably so; and probably the hardest thing was admitting it, first to themselves then to each other, clicking the kettle on first like they were in a spy novel or something, all too conscious of the open door, the object of their discussion just across the hall.

Sex, for Aramis and Porthos – whether planned or spontaneous, kinky or vanilla, coming so hard you saw stars or elbowing your partner in the face half way through and promptly collapsing into laughter – was, above all else, always fun.

Sex for Athos – well, Aramis didn’t think he quite knew and wasn’t sure Athos even did himself, but _fun_ was probably the last word he’d use.

And for all Aramis knew, with the faith he brought to every bed, that one day he’d make it right – in the meantime, they had to learn how to deal. That Athos _couldn’t_ actually be trusted to safeword, to drink in moderation or to articulate what he wanted. That the things which had him hard in under a minute, vision unfocused and mouth open in a wordless plea as he writhed for them, were sometimes the things that led him to lock himself in his own flat, turn his phone off and refuse to answer the door when they hammered on it, for several days; conversely, that it really was okay to sometimes just lay him down beside them on the bed and take his hands in theirs while together, Aramis and Porthos would catch their breath.

They bought him a copy of _The BDSM Relationship Handbook_ , and were careful when taking their frustrations out on him; and as the weeks turned into months they held their breath a little as at last, things finally seemed to be settling.

“I want to get better,” Athos confessed to them, one night when they were all more drunk than sober and Aramis and Porthos had refused to fuck him the way they knew he wanted, instead lying down together in their bed and pressing him close between them, so close it must surely hurt. “It’s just that sometimes I lose sight of how.”

And Aramis’ brain – jumping two steps ahead as usual – was already thinking of all the things Athos wanted and hated himself for wanting, and how ultimately he couldn’t change any of them, only try and find a little peace; and he meant to say something sympathetic and slightly philosophical, but when he opened his mouth what came out was:

“You don’t have a choice.”

And he could have hit himself for voicing something so thoughtless, so ill-conceived (and over the top of Athos’ head he saw Porthos wince, and give him an angry glare); but after freezing in their arms Athos didn’t extricate himself but pressed his face even deeper against the base of Aramis’ neck, and neither of them missed the new breathlessness in his voice when he asked – _begged –_ “Say that again?”

 

* * *

 

It’s Athos’ birthday.

It’s Athos’ birthday, and he’s taking the package Aramis is holding out to him with a quizzical little smile, as if gift-giving is some kind of Earth ritual he’s read about in books but is only now experiencing for the first time.

Aramis’ other hand is twisting and twisting in Porthos’, drumming out a Riverdance on his knuckles, and his facial expression may be carefully curated to within an inch of its life but if you know exactly where to look there’s always, _always_ something that gives him away.

But Athos isn’t looking. He’s ripped open one end of the wrapping paper and is sliding out the black case within with a curious frown, testing the weight of it a little in his hands, before unzipping it to reveal a row of thin metal rods on a velvet backing, each about six inches long and tipped by bulbs longer than they are wide, of varying sizes.

For a few moments he just looks, and doesn’t say a word.

“You know what they are,” Aramis can’t help saying, even though it’s rather obvious.

Athos blinks, as if he’s just remembered there are other people in the room. “Yes. They’re rosebud sounds.”

“It’s just an idea.” He’s babbling, but he can’t stop himself. “No obligation to try them, of course, if you’re not interested –”

“Let him tell you.” Porthos – mercifully – cuts him off; it’s only when he reaches over to loosen Aramis’ fingers that he realises how tightly he’s been gripping.

And Aramis trusts Porthos. He trusts him implicitly, no matter how terrible an idea this suddenly seems, despite his utter conviction that any minute now Athos is going to turn slightly pale, put the box down carefully on the side table, get up and walk out –

But what actually happens is that Athos looks between them both, a little puzzled perhaps but not at all upset, and says, “Alright. I’m interested.”

“Right.”

It takes Aramis a moment to realise why Athos’ composure has him so thrown; but the truth is that however far they’ve come in almost a year together, he still very much associates an Athos showing such blasé sexual confidence with the Athos of those early days, who may have known all the tools of the trade but still didn’t know how to keep himself safe.

Fortunately, Porthos is more generous, or just more together; and while Aramis is still floundering he leans back into the sofa cushions and says, “So, I’d suggest two ways we can do this. First one is, we go upstairs and just try them out, see what it’s like.” A significant pause. “Or… you might agree with me that this kind of procedure is best performed by a trained professional.”

And _there_ is the response Aramis realises he’s been waiting for: it’s subtle, but he’s become proficient in reading the darkening of Athos’ eyes and the momentary flaring of his nostrils as his attention sharpens, though the muscles of his mouth are still carefully controlled and his voice is smooth when he replies, “Yes. I believe that would be most prudent. For reasons of safety, of course.”

“Of course,” Aramis echoes, and he doesn’t need to look to know Porthos is grinning beside him, broad and just a little predatory.

Because this is new. It’s one of the items on the checklist that remained firmly blank until only a few weeks ago; and even with all the things he’s learned, Aramis would probably have let it stay that way. For all that he and Porthos have agreed they can enjoy it because Athos does, it’s not a way they would ever play just the two of them – he can’t imagine them being able to take it seriously, for a start.

But for Athos, for his residual fear and shame and his very real interest, they have no trouble in taking it exactly as seriously as he needs them to.

So now Aramis has a white lab coat and a stethoscope and Porthos a set of scrubs, and still unbeknownst to their third they spent an edifying Sunday afternoon screwing several sets of metal rings into the frame of the spare room bed while making weak jokes about how this would be a very expensive one to have read wrong, which did nothing to hide their very real anxiety about the possibility.

But they haven’t read this wrong, and now it’s _happening_ ; and the sudden rush of adrenaline is already thrumming in Aramis’ veins as Porthos gets up and walks over to the armchair to kiss Athos’ lips, and tells him, “Take a shower. Your appointment’s in thirty minutes.”

 

* * *

 

Dressing up helps, Aramis decides as he finishes buttoning his white coat, looks into the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door and sees a doctor looking back.

He puts on the stethoscope, and his rarely-used reading glasses. They both help.

Porthos appears behind him in the mirror, in his scrubs, sliding his arms around Aramis’ waist and kissing the side of his neck. “You ready for this, babe?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Aramis replies automatically – but he _is_ , already buzzing with the anticipation of teasing out another thread from the tangled knot that is his newest lover. “Have you got the clipboard?”

“Already on the desk.”

“Then let’s do it,” Aramis twists in Porthos’ arms to kiss him, long and slow and lingering, pulling away with a grin. “I’ll be in my office.”

Porthos’ and Aramis’ spare bedroom may be lacking a PVC couch, but it’s the closest to a perfect setting for this scene that they’re likely to get. It contains little more than a small desk and chair, and a double bed (now with aforementioned metal rings attached), and apart from a single bookshelf mounted above the desk, its anonymity would put hotel rooms to shame.

(They have been meaning to decorate for years, of course, but never quite got around to it, which Aramis thinks must have been fate trying to tell them something, and Porthos just calls a creative way of justifying their own laziness.)

Aramis seats himself behind that desk, staring at the metal rods in their open case and relishing the heady cocktail of nervous excitement sloshing around in his belly, the promise of discovery to come.

It’s barely a minute before he hears footsteps outside the door, and then voices, though he doesn’t need to listen to know what’s being said. Ever since they discovered the source of many of Athos’ desires, he and Porthos instigated a standard pre-scene discussion, where Athos is required to tell them both his safewords (one for _stop,_ one for _ease up on me_ ) and they remind him that they will not respond to anything but those words, and that they all have a responsibility to each other to keep everyone safe. At first they didn’t know whether to expect resentment, for so clearly treating him like a novice; but Athos just accepted their demands with no more than a fatalistic shrug, as if to say that he didn’t trust himself either, so why should they?

Which makes Aramis fucking angry, because it’s entirely missing the point: if they didn’t trust him, they wouldn’t be doing this at all.

Two smart raps on the door.

“Come!” Aramis calls out in his best bored professional’s voice, and doesn’t bother turning around.

The door clicks open, and he hears Porthos’ voice: “Mr de la Fère to see you, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Nurse.” Aramis slowly swivels on his chair to see Athos, standing at the end of the bed as if he isn’t quite sure where to put himself, eyes widening just a fraction as he takes in Aramis’ white coat buttoned over a shirt and smart slacks, the stethoscope draped around his neck, the glasses he may not even have known that Aramis owned. Athos himself is dressed in a pale blue button-down shirt and a nicer pair of jeans than earlier. His feet are bare.

Behind him, Porthos closes the door, slightly louder than necessary. Aramis mentally applauds him for it.

“Good afternoon. My name is Doctor d’Herblay.” He makes a point of peering at Athos over the top of his glasses, which have slipped slightly down his nose already. “Please take off your clothes and lie back on the couch.” He gestures towards the bed, stripped free of duvet and pillows for the occasion.

Athos visibly hesitates, hands held firmly by his sides as he asks, “Is that really necessary?”

In response, Aramis gives the world-weary sigh of someone who’s had to explain this nine times already today, and isn’t relishing the tenth. “Well, I can’t exactly examine you otherwise, can I?”

He doesn’t know if that first hesitation was real or contrived, but once Athos has stripped with utilitarian speed, leaving his clothes on the end of the bed and sitting down in the middle of mattress, knees drawn up (and not exactly obeying instructions), he does look suddenly apprehensive as Porthos scoops up the pile and leaves the room with it. Aramis meanwhile is rereading their bulleted plan of action that’s the first page on the clipboard, both to give the illusion of privacy and some time for Athos to stew; but when Porthos returns and immediately retrieves one of the familiar leather cuffs from under the bed – now attached to a length of chain – Aramis’ eyes snap up as Athos asks, genuinely startled, “What are you doing?”

“Restraining you,” Porthos explains, pulling one of Athos’ legs into position without warning and buckling on the cuff before he can protest. “It’s standard for these types of procedures.”

“For a routine physical?” Athos asks faintly, but they both ignore him as Porthos walks around to the other side of the bed and cuffs his other leg. They’ve measured well: Athos’ legs are bent and spread just as they would be on a real examination table, and though the angle’s not quite right with his feet flat on the mattress, Aramis is sure that psychologically speaking it will be just as effective as a real set of stirrups.

Porthos pauses between Athos’ legs, and allows himself a little leer. Though Aramis is at the wrong angle to see it he’d bet any money that Athos’ cock is starting to respond already, just from the position.

“Now, Mr de la Fère.” Aramis gets to his feet, pretending to consult his clipboard. “Athos. First I need to take some up-to-date medical history. Are you sexually active?”

“Yes,” Athos answers easily.

Athos pulls a biro from his pocket and pretends to write Athos’ answer down. “Current sexual partner, or partners?”

“Two. Both male.”

“And how would you describe your sexual orientation?”

“Bisexual.”

“ _Bisexual_ ,” Aramis murmurs, though not for any particular reason, as he allows himself to stare. Porthos has Athos flat on his back now, and is buckling the last cuff into place; his arms are stretched out, which isn’t really what Aramis wants, but will have to do for today. He writes down on the bottom of Porthos’ plan, _Next time – long belts to secure arms to sides?,_ imagines how they’d look wrapped across Athos’ chest and stomach, just how much more vulnerable he’d feel to have them pinned instead.

It’s time for Aramis’ next question.

“Have you been penetrated anally, and if so, how often?”

“I really don’t see how this is relevant,” Athos protests, though to Aramis’ eyes there’s a touch of desperation about it, a desperation that he fully intends to take advantage of.

“I am your doctor, and I will decide what is relevant,” he fires back, arching one eyebrow in his best _try me if you like, but you will lose_ face.

( _“_ _Authority figures_ _,” Athos admitted, pressing his cheek to Porthos’ shoulder so he didn’t have to look either of them in the eye. “_ _Doctors, teachers,_ _police_ _–” he hesitated, as if he had been about to add something else and then thought better of it;_ _Aramis made a mental note_ _. “_ _People I wouldn’t have the power to resist.”_ )

“Now answer the question.”

“Yes – frequently.” Athos still meets his gaze, but the slight stutter in his words shows the effort it’s costing him. His cock lies nestled half-hard in a bed of dark curls, and Aramis wonders just how much he’s struggling with the urge to cover himself.

“And have you ever inserted anything into your urethra?”

In a voice much too quiet, Athos answers, “Once.”

“What? Speak up.”

“Once,” Athos repeats, louder.

“ _Interesting_ ,” Aramis replies – and means it. This is new information, and even if he didn’t have a rough script for this he’d still be asking, “And _why_ , exactly, did you do that?”

This time, Athos looks slightly over Aramis’ shoulder rather than at his face as he replies, “Curiosity.”

Aramis actually scoffs – loud enough to have Porthos give him a warning glance, but he has Athos’ full attention now and he’s sure, _sure_ that this is what Athos wants. “Curiosity,” he repeats mockingly. “I’m curious about a lot of things, Mr de la Fère, and they generally don’t involve inserting objects into my penis. I think what you meant to say was ‘sexual pleasure’.”

With a show of reluctance, Athos nods – and Aramis thinks he can detect a slight flush beginning between his collarbones.

“Right then.” He puts his clipboard down on the desk, reaching for a pair of blue nitrile gloves and pulling them on, deliberately snapping the bands against his wrists and enjoying the effect it has on his patient. “We’ll begin with a prostate examination.”

Athos frowns. “But I thought –”

“You _thought_.”

Aramis has already opened the lube, and deliberately pauses for a moment with it hovering above his outstretched hand before clicking the cap back on and stashing it in his coat pocket.

He strides over to the foot of the bed, folding his arms and deliberately letting his eyes sweep up Athos’ naked body, noting his arousal. “Mr de la Fère. This is getting tiresome. We all know why you’re here, so I’d appreciate it if you dropped the act. Otherwise Nurse du Vallon will be forced to gag you.” Aramis isn’t really planning on doing any such thing, but it’s thoroughly worth saying for the effect it has.

“This procedure will go ahead whether you like it or not,” he concludes, having to struggle himself to appear disinterested when Athos’ eyes _blaze_ and a tremor seems to run through his frame, cock visibly twitching, “so you might as well save your breath.”

“Doctor,” Athos murmurs, though his hands are still balled into fists beneath the cuffs and there’s tension in every muscle.

Porthos goes over and sits down on the edge of the bed beside Athos’ head, placing a hand carefully on top of his. “Try and relax. You can squeeze my hand, if it helps.”

Athos doesn’t reply, but he does uncurl his fist and grip Porthos’ hand in his.

Aramis meanwhile has squeezed a dollop of lube onto his first two fingers, and looms over Athos for a moment at the foot of the bed, before sitting down on the desk chair and leaning forward. “Shift down a little for me, roll those hips up. I’d say this may be a little uncomfortable, but I gather you’re used to it.”

What it _is_ is cold. Aramis has made no attempt to warm the lube up before circling over Athos’ hole with the pads of his fingers; and unsurprisingly Athos bucks a little in response and sucks in a breath with the shock of it.

He lets that same breath out in a rush when Aramis pushes both fingers straight in, crooking them and immediately rubbing firmly over Athos’ prostate.

“Do you find this kind of stimulation pleasurable?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Athos replies breathlessly. His head has dropped back and he’s staring at the ceiling, jaw set as though this is something he’s merely enduring.

“And that concerns you. That’s why you came here today, isn’t it?”

Porthos’ expression says _be careful_ ; and Aramis isn’t sure Athos will answer, but then he does: “I – my desires do not align with the way I was raised.”

( _“_ _Heterosexual, for a start. But – more than that too. Gentle_ _with a woman_ _, yet firmly in command.” He huffed, as if in laughter,_ _fingers twisting in Porthos’_ _. “All things I’ve never been.”_ )

“And that’s why clinics like this one exist,” Aramis answers – warmly, warmer than he’s been ever since Athos came through that door, because he _believes_ in this, knows it as innately as his own name. “To treat people like you. To give them what they may not think they want, but what they ultimately do _need_.”

And with those words, he starts to rub rhythmically back and forth over Athos’ prostate, smiling just a little to himself as Athos’ head falls back against the mattress, and he hisses through his teeth in the way Aramis knows he does when he’s suppressing a moan.

“Don’t,” he whispers, and Aramis ignores him; Porthos reaches over to pull a lock of hair from his brow and press the back of his hand to Athos’ forehead, where he’s starting to sweat, and murmurs, “Shh, just let it happen.”

“I’m going to continue to stimulate you anally until you ejaculate,” Aramis tells him, the first two fingers of his other hand pressing against Athos’ perineum until moisture begins to bead at the tip of his now fully-hard cock. “First-time insertions are a great deal easier if the patient is flaccid, and with someone like you, I think this is the only way.”

“Charming,” Athos murmurs, just loud enough to be heard; and though a part of Aramis rather wants to laugh he knows that Athos certainly isn’t far enough under if he’s still wisecracking, still resisting, and it’s clear what he has to do.

“I believe I warned you. Nurse, stop his mouth with something.”

And Porthos reaches across with his other hand and jams three gloved fingers into Athos’ mouth, Aramis unable to help smiling to himself at Athos’ gurgle of surprise.

From then on, things progress much more smoothly. Athos is as quiet as a mouse around Porthos’ intruding fingers, seemingly considering any further noise to be a sign of weakness; and though Aramis is sorely tempted to touch his cock with the other hand and shock him out of it, he ultimately decides to stick to his brief and just settles for the slow, unyielding pressure that he knows from experience Athos can only hold out against for so long, looking at Porthos and asking, “What do you think, Nurse?”

Porthos grins slowly – he’s enjoying this as much as Aramis is, _good_ – before replying, “Difficult. One of the more difficult cases I think we’ve seen. But promising.”

“I agree. Very promising indeed.” Aramis’ left hand reaches out to caress Athos’ inner thigh in a way that isn’t strictly necessary. “I think he’ll be beautifully responsive once he stops resisting the inevitable.”

“What do you say, eh?” Porthos asks Athos gently, turning his head with his fingers so he’s forced to meet his eyes. Aramis can see his throat working – swallowing, he imagines the saliva beginning to build up and knows how much Athos hates that particular humiliation. “Are you ready to behave yourself?”

He pulls his fingers out so that Athos can reply, “Yes, Nurse,” his voice hoarse and his eyes heavy-lidded, more subdued and calmer for it.

“Good,” Porthos murmurs, pushing back the hair that’s fallen in his face again, before pulling a tissue from his pocket and wiping the sweat from Athos’ forehead. “Remember, if you don’t then we’ll just have to make you.”

“Now tell me,” Aramis picks up, “How does it feel?”

Athos really has to think for a few moments; Aramis suspects he’s struggling for words. “Full,” he eventually manages.

“No discomfort?”

“None.”

“Hmm.” Aramis withdraws his fingers – slowly, savouring Athos’ rough drawing of breath – and applies more lube, and then pushes back in with three instead of two, triggering a groan of surprise that stops abruptly with Athos clamping his jaw together, gritting his teeth.

“Stop fighting it,” Porthos reminds him, Athos’ hand still gripped tightly in his. “We know you like this, there’s no point pretending otherwise.”

“Don’t. Please,” Athos begs, as Aramis slowly pulls back and pushes in again, harder, watching in fascination as Athos’ hole stretches to accommodate his gloved fingers –

( _“_ _I_ _know i_ _t’s a mess.” Thought Athos’ voice was matter-of-fact, he was_ _staring_ _into his somethingth glass of wine as though it would hold all the answers. “_ _Perhaps it would be easier to be free of self-hatred if I hadn’t managed to sexualise it as well.”_

“ _And perhaps you worry,” Aramis replied, only realising it was true as he said the words, “that if you let us take that away from you then there would be nothing left.”_ )

– and Aramis deliberately echoes his words of long ago as he says, “You don’t have a choice,” and pushes in, in, in, over and over until Athos finally shudders and comes, shooting silently over his stomach, face screwed up in anguish or ecstasy.

“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Aramis concludes with the classic cliché of the medical professional as he slides his fingers free, pulling off his glove and getting up to deposit it in the bin. He turns back to see Porthos cleaning Athos up, gently squeezing his cock to draw out the last drops of come – the first time either of them have touched him there today, making him moan softly – before using a wet wipe on his belly.

In response, Athos just croaks, “Water?”

Aramis and Porthos glance at each other – damn, there’s always _something_ – before Porthos replies, “Of course,” getting up and leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

“So. How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” Athos replies; and Aramis is fully expecting him to stick to factual statements, so it surprises him thoroughly when Athos adds, “And – humiliated.”

It’s not entirely clear whether he means it positively.

“Look.” Aramis comes over and sits down on the edge of the bed, just below Athos’ outstretched arm, as a doctor would decidedly not do. “Athos. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I can assure you that there’s absolutely nothing abnormal about you. Either in what you find sexually pleasurable, or your resulting difficulties in accepting it.”

“You’re hardly the first person to say this to me,” Athos points out.

“No, but it’s me you’re going to listen to. You wanted to get better,” Aramis reminds him, leaning over and running the fingers of his ungloved hand lightly along Athos’ jawline, love swelling in his breast when Athos doesn’t even try and hide his flinch at the words. “You still do, that’s why we’re all here. And if it’s a doctor you need, then you shall have one.”

For that, he gets the ghost of a smile. “I’m fairly sure doctors don’t do the kind of things you’ve been doing.”

“Doctors heal their patients,” Aramis argues, other hand reaching out to briefly squeeze Athos’ fingers, “You just need to find the right doctor.”

At that moment Porthos returns with a glass of water in hand, and Aramis lets him take his place, pulling the chair back to the desk and sitting down behind it, and pretending to write on his clipboard. There’s enough give in the chains to allow Porthos to pull Athos up a little into his lap and feed him sips of water until he murmurs, “That’s enough, thank you.”

( _“I love that,” Porthos said, resting his head on Aramis’ chest as Aramis idly twirled one of his curls around his own finger. “Making him helpless and then helping him myself. ‘Specially knowing he resents it. Is that awful?”_

“ _Not at all. He needs our help. He just has to learn to accept it.”_ )

Below his note about the belts, Aramis writes down, _Next time – offer him a choice, but make him earn it._

Aloud, he says, “Nurse du Vallon will perform the sound insertion procedure today. I will be observing.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Athos replies – quite calmly, considering.

It makes Aramis immediately suspicious.

He pulls his chair back to the foot of the bed so he’s looking up between Athos’ legs again, pretending to consult his notes. “You mentioned earlier that you have inserted an object into your urethra on a previous occasion. Could you describe the event for me?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I do not take kindly to patients who withhold necessary information,” Aramis warns, his mind racing to try and work out what exactly they could do if Athos suddenly refused to cooperate.

“I mean that I don’t remember,” Athos clarifies. “I was rather intoxicated at the time.”

“And lucky to avoid doing serious damage to yourself, no doubt,” Aramis snaps, surprised by the strength of his anger. “You’re not to attempt it again without proper supervision.”

It’s not until he sees the look Porthos shoots him from the direction of the desk, where he’s sterilising the sound of his choice with an alcohol wipe, that Aramis realises exactly what he’s said – and its implications. They’ve _never_ played like this before, never imposed demands on one another outside of a scene, and to ask this of Athos now could be called manipulative at best.

At worst it could ruin the scene entirely, and destroy all the progress they’ve made with it.

But Athos either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, at least not right now; in fact as he agrees, “Yes, Doctor,” he even looks a little chastened.

“Nurse, are you ready?” Aramis asks, wanting to press on as quickly as possible.

“Yes, Doctor,” Porthos replies as he steps away from the desk with the implement in hand. It glints as it catches the sliver of sunlight coming through gap in the hastily-closed curtains.

Aramis is almost intimidated himself, and it’s not even him that’s on the receiving end.

He moves back out of the way as Porthos climbs onto the end of the bed so he’s sitting pressed between Athos’ thighs, pulling his chair round to the far side of the bed and seating himself level with Athos’ head.

“First I’m going to apply some lubricant to the head of your penis,” Porthos explains, holding the sound between two fingers as he unscrews the cap on the special sterile lubricant they ordered precisely for this purpose, then taking Athos’ still half-hard cock in his left hand and doing as promised, Athos’ breathing turning just a little heavier.

“Then I’m going to slowly insert the sound – and I need you to tell me immediately if you feel any pain or any resistance, okay?”

“Yes, Nurse.”

Aramis can see Athos’ tension only mounting, and without a word he reaches out and takes his hand in his, smiling when Athos looks at him in surprise. “Don’t worry, Nurse du Vallon is eminently competent. I trained him myself.”

That’s enough to make Athos smile back – until a gasp falls from his lips and his head snaps up, looking down to where Porthos has already lubricated the sound and is touching its bulb to the slit of his cock, held vertical in his gloved hand.

Aramis reaches down the side of the bed for one of the discarded pillows, and pushes it beneath Athos’ head as Porthos starts ever-so-gently to push the bulb down until it disappears entirely inside the head of his cock.

And Aramis was prepared for the way Athos tenses all over, clutching at his hand as he gasps out a ragged, “ _Ohh_ ,” mouth open and eyes wide – but he wasn’t prepared for the way his own arousal hits him like a brick.

( _“_ _You think you’re awful? I love his_ issues _. I love that we can go deeper with him than we ever could with just us two.” Aramis sighed. “I can’t help dreaming that one day he’ll let us break him,_ _and_ _rebuild him anew.”_ )

Athos is spread out between them like a feast, as they give him something he’s never known before, and Aramis is hungry, hungry, _hungry_.

But he keeps his head, because he has to, and demands, “Tell Nurse du Vallon how it feels.”

“It’s so _intense_ ,” Athos breathes, in a voice that’s almost wonder. “I didn’t think it would be this – this _much-!_ ”

“Do you feel it stretching?” Porthos asks, “Or should I try another size up?”

Athos is shaking his head. “I don’t know, I…”

“Try the next size,” Aramis decides for them. “If it’s too much, you can always go back down. I’ll get it for you.” He gets off his chair and goes over to the desk, taking the next wand from the leather wallet and sterilising it before swapping it for the one in Porthos’ hand, leaving that on top of the used alcohol wipe.

Then he leans against the door to watch as Porthos lubes up and inserts the second sound, taking in the whole picture: Athos flushed and sweating, fingers digging into the mattress, trying to grab a fistful of bedsheet to cling onto; his cock in Porthos’ blue-gloved hand, hissing out a breath as the metal bulb disappears inside the tip of his cock.

“This is it.” Porthos sounds nearly as awed as Athos had. “This is good. All I’m doing is just guiding it down inside.” Aramis watches his hand as it lowers by a couple of inches. “How does it feel? Athos?”

“Like nothing I can describe,” Athos murmurs, eyes fixed on the point where the metal disappears inside his cock. “No pain, just almost impossibly full, _there_. It’s… intense. Focused, almost delicate, somehow. It feels incredibly strange – like being fingered for the first time – but wonderful too.”

Aramis isn’t sure he’s ever heard Athos rhapsodise about anything quite like this.

“Then I think you’re ready for me to move this,” Porthos says as he starts to pull the sound just a little way out – and the change in Athos is instant, as he _moans_ and grabs at the bedsheets, screwing up his face and turning his head to one side, as he gets out, “ _Ahh_ – please – please –”

Porthos moves the sound slowly back and forth – _fucking him with it,_ Aramis thinks, almost having to grab at his own cock like a teenager as it immediately demands his attention. Though he’s been pleasantly half-hard ever since Athos was positioned naked on the bed he’s been able to ignore it, subsumed his needs into Athos’ own, and it’s a surprise to have it suddenly hit him like this.

Not that it should be. He’s always loved novelty almost for its own sake, and to watch a man he loves undergo such an intimate penetration, that has him – normally so silent and still in his submission – writhing and gasping, his _pleases_ becoming _no, no, I can’t, please, no –_

“Shh. Just take it, that’s good,” Porthos coaxes, a look of such concentration on his face that Aramis thinks he’d be breathless just from that, watching that care, that focus. “I want you to take it for me.”

“No – stop, please, stop _stop_ –” Athos’ face creases like he’s in pain – “Cocoa.”

The word is quiet, yet it resounds through the room like a shot; Porthos’ hand stills immediately.

And Aramis is by Athos’ side in moments, slipping a hand into his as he asks, “What do you need?”, a little voice in his head chanting, _it’s okay, that wasn’t his red safeword,_ _you haven’t broken him,_ _it’s okay._

When Athos blinks as though he’s just woken up, opens his mouth and closes it again, Aramis realises just how deeply he’s under, and immediately rephrases to a less open question: “Do you need Nurse du Vallon to stop?”

“No. I just need a minute,” Athos gasps, though he’s still frowning up at the ceiling as if distressed by something he can’t quite articulate; and Aramis knows enough to know when a sub’s dropped too far and is losing himself.

Within half a minute he has Athos’ arms freed from the cuffs and gets onto the bed behind him, lifting him up by the armpits and into his lap. “Here, lean against me,” he croons, wrapping his arms across Athos’ chest, knowing he was right when Athos immediately closes his eyes and presses his face into Aramis’ arm, his own stiff arms reaching slowly up to press on top of Aramis’, holding him in place.

“Tell me when you’re ready to continue with the procedure.” Aramis traces the pad of one finger over Athos’ nipple to make sure he has his attention, making him huff.

“Yes, Doctor,” he replies obediently, eyes still closed; and it takes another half-minute of just holding Athos and feeling him settle before he says, “I’m ready.”

“Watch,” Aramis commands, unwilling to let Athos drift too far; and he opens his eyes obediently. When Porthos shifts the angle of his grip on Athos’ cock Aramis realises for the first time he’s fully hard again, straight after having come, just from having the sound moved back and forth inside him for barely a minute.

He’s itching to try it himself, though of course he’ll just have to wait his turn. This is Athos’ time, and he wouldn’t trade the sight of his lover in such mindless bliss for all the pleasure in the world.

Then Porthos lifts his hand again, pulling the sound just a little out – and Athos’ head falls back against Aramis’ stomach, his eyes snapping shut and his breath rushing ragged from his mouth.

“ _Watch,_ ” Aramis insists, pulling a hand free to slap Athos lightly on the cheek a few times until he opens his eyes, “and tell me when you’re close.”

“Yes, Doctor,” he gasps, “ _ah_ –” as Porthos draws the rosebud right to the tip – Aramis can see it protruding – and then lets it sink back inside, with a moment’s pause this time before beginning to lift it again.

“How does this feel?” he asks, the expression on his face very much what Aramis thinks must be on his own.

This time, Athos _smiles._ “Exquisite.”

Porthos continues to pause between every movement of the sound inside Athos’ cock, which seems to be keeping him firmly at the limits of his tolerance, still gasping and tossing his head in Aramis’ lap – though his hips stay remarkably still, at least still mindful of the damage he could do if he isn’t careful.

And Porthos is looking at Aramis, and Aramis knows he’s thinking it too: that watching Athos in ecstasy like this, so open and unrestrained, is something of a miracle each time. That beneath all their lover’s issues, his fears and shames and rationalisations, is that deep, essential self that only knows pleasure; and Aramis truly believes that every time they take him down, he’ll come up again just a little more gently.

That they are – truly – healing him.

Athos never says he’s close, in the end. He doesn’t come, just floats for a while, turning his smile once more into Aramis’ arm and breathing out long and warm there when Porthos finally withdraws the sound for the last time (and Aramis smiles to watch him giving his arm a good shake – the fine motor control needed must be significant), curling onto his side the moment his legs are released from their restraints.

Porthos meanwhile dumps everything not-too-carefully on the desk and strips to his boxers before climbing in behind Athos and spooning up against him, allowing Aramis to slip out and strip down as well, rescuing the spare room duvet from their bedroom just in case.

Athos blinks his eyes open as Aramis slips back onto the bed beside him. “Doctor?”

“Aramis.” He bends his head and kisses Athos on the mouth to illustrate. “Don’t come back till you’re ready, yeah?”

Over his head, Aramis catches Porthos’ eye.

( _“_ _And every time he does, I find myself grieving.”_ )

But then he remembers there’s something he has to say.

“Athos. I didn’t mean it, when I told you not to use the sounding rods by yourself.” He can’t quite bring himself to use the word _manipulate_ , but manages instead, “I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

Athos frowns. “No. I remember, but – I don’t think I’d realised the implications.”

“Unless you’d like us to?” Porthos picks up, just the barest hint of a question in his voice.

Athos shifts a little onto his back, so he can look between them. “No. That’s not – but I liked that you said it. If that makes sense.”

And immediately Aramis’ head starts to spin with fantasies of restriction and control, of telling Athos he’s theirs and only theirs, his body not even his own to pleasure, imagining the way Athos would close his eyes and go _limp_ beneath him, his head rolling back to bare his neck – and his cock hardens abruptly against Athos’ hip, though all he says is, “Yeah. We can do that.”

Not that he’s fooling himself that Athos hasn’t noticed.

Athos’ lip curls in amusement; and a second later Aramis is being dragged into a thorough kiss, from which he only emerges when Porthos bodily pulls Athos off him and onto himself a full half-minute later, and proceeds to kiss him breathless for at least as long.

Finally Athos flops onto his back, reaching for both of their hands, and says without a trace of hesitation, “I want to see you two together.”

( _“_ _One day we’ll do it. We’ll crack him, we’ll break him down and make him ours, and he’ll look us in the eyes afterwards and smile.”_ )

And he’s not just smiling; he’s _grinning_ , a little shyly, and as Porthos grins back Aramis looks between the two of them and thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Then Porthos winks.

“Better make use of those restraints after all the time we spent fixing ‘em, eh?”

Aramis puts up a good fight, of course, but only for appearances’ sake. Really, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 


End file.
